Post by Nephallim on Mar 13, 2006 20:24:35 GMT -5
This is a short story I wrote as a character background for a DnD game... I ended up never using it, so I shall post it here. For some OOC info, the character was intended to be of the Ninja class (as printed in Complete Adventurer). I payed special mind not to use actualy Japanese words and instead used rough translations. Enjoy.
The way of shadow was not always my path. It was not the way of life I was born to. When I was young, barely a pup, I walked in the light of day, with the privileged class that claims servitude. I was one of them, raised from a young age to fight and kill in the elegant and honorable manner of my ancestors. Oh how sweet those bitter days seem now. I say they are bitter, because in my youth, I was filled with hatred and envy. Hatred for the neighboring clans of servants, who my family had always hated. Envy for my brother who was, so I thought, twice the warrior I was. Hatred for my father, who arranged for my brother to marry my childhood friend. Now, in hindsight, I wish that I could have remained in those days forever. I wish that I had never stepped into the world of shadows.
At the last of those days, my envy and hatred grew to much of a burden, and I took my field sword, and took the heads of the brother I longed to be and the father who wanted chess pieces instead of sons. My childhood friend, the woman, no, the girl who I longed to have as my wife cursed me and called me coward. In my grief, I couldn’t bear to hear her words of hatred. She to lost her life that dreadful night.
Soon thereafter my father’s servants came across the bodies, and I was forced to flee the place I had called home. I barely made it out of my father’s manor, and without the aid of Teacher, I doubt that I would have left the city alive. Teacher appeared out of nowhere as I was fleeing my father’s servants. He grabbed my hand, and led me down the back alleys of the city, dodging my father’s servants, and delaying them with caltrops and smoke tricks when they got to close for comfort.
When we had thrown off my father’s servants, Teacher, cloaked in black, straw hat coving his features, asked me if I was a servant.
With my hair, snow white as it is, the answer was obvious. “No,” I said, “Not anymore.
Teacher raised his head, so that I could see his eyes past his cloak and hat. His eyes gazed at me coldly, as if looking into my very soul. His expression, as little of it as I could see, seemed to ask why?
I diverted my gaze, and told him that I’d slain my father and brother. I told him that I was a kinslayer, not worthy even of a noble death.
He told me that I might yet have a purpose, and took me out of the city. He told me that he would teach me of a path that was not bound by the rules that the self-proclaimed servants put forth. He also told me that if I learned this path, I would forever by the enemy of the servants.
Eager to defy fate, I told him that I would learn this path.
The first thing Teacher taught me was how to forget the path I had walked before. He taught me the art of making my thoughts nothing, and through this first training, I erased the center of my being. Destroyed the foundation lain down by my father to make way for the foundation Teacher would lay. After that, Teacher taught me the values of the way of shadow. Honor, in the form my father valued, was worthless in the shadows. Where my father taught me to be true in word, Teacher taught me to be true in heart. Where father taught me to honor loyalties as dictated by others, Teacher taught me to honor loyalties as dictated by myself. How pure and simple the way of shadow seemed in those first weeks of my instruction.
After Teacher had imparted his philosophy, he began to train me in the crafts of the shadow. He taught me how to grind and boil certain roots, berries, and fungi to produce deadly poisons, and he ground my field sword down to make me a blade more suitable to the world of shadows. In the following days, when he taught me to use it properly, I marveled at how fast and free that new blade was compared to the heavy field sword my father had given me.
After I became proficient in the use of my shadow sword, which I named Little Steel, Teacher began to instruct me in the finer arts of the shadow world. These lessons were the harshest. The arts of stealth, and the craft of deception are, perhaps, the hardest for a former servant, such as myself, to learn. When I asked Teacher why these things were necessary, or even desired, when he preached to me about truth and loyalty, Teacher responded by saying that stealth and guile would free me from relying on others. He told me that the only way to be free was to conceal myself, whether physically or mentally, from others. I think that this is when I started to hate the path of shadow. I hated it even more when Teacher showed me how a creature of shadow put rice on the table.
The last thing Teacher taught me, before he vanished from my life, was how to kill. He showed me how to correctly apply poisons to daggers and needles, and where the vital points on the human body were. He taught me that the shadow sword was not always the best weapon, and how to judge when to use different arms. I think he realized how I was beginning to hate this new world, and how I longed for the simpler ways of my childhood, as I still do. The last time I saw him, he told me that I had learned all he could teach, and that the rest I would have to learn on my own. He asked me to live in shadows, at peace with myself. Than he left, vanished through some trick I had yet to learn.
At first, I tried to return to the way of the servant. I traveled to distant realms, where I wouldn’t be haunted by my reputation as a kinslayer. At every stop, my would-be-master beamed at my snow-white hair, than scowled at my blade. At every stop, I was watched, and more than once, my would-be-master tried to have me killed. Eventually, I stopped approaching these men openly as a would-be-servant, and started approaching them in the shadows, as an assassin, willing to kill for money. None of my employers tried to have me killed. A servant with a short blade is a potential spy. An assassin with a short blade is a professional who knows his work.
In time, I began to learn the vanishing trick my master pulled on me, and the scope of my assignments changed to include counter-assassination. The subterfuge of my initial job now expanded drastically to deal with the subterfuge of the other assassins I sought to thwart. How wearisome my job seemed. How I longed to give it up. It was around this time that I heard rumors of a foreign land, where this tedious necessity of killing for money didn’t exist. The land I heard of was a place where anyone could walk in the sunlight, not just the servants and their peasant dogs. What drew me most of all though, was the fact that no one in this foreign land would know of my past. This was a land where I could start my life anew.
The way of shadow was not always my path. It was not the way of life I was born to. When I was young, barely a pup, I walked in the light of day, with the privileged class that claims servitude. I was one of them, raised from a young age to fight and kill in the elegant and honorable manner of my ancestors. Oh how sweet those bitter days seem now. I say they are bitter, because in my youth, I was filled with hatred and envy. Hatred for the neighboring clans of servants, who my family had always hated. Envy for my brother who was, so I thought, twice the warrior I was. Hatred for my father, who arranged for my brother to marry my childhood friend. Now, in hindsight, I wish that I could have remained in those days forever. I wish that I had never stepped into the world of shadows.
At the last of those days, my envy and hatred grew to much of a burden, and I took my field sword, and took the heads of the brother I longed to be and the father who wanted chess pieces instead of sons. My childhood friend, the woman, no, the girl who I longed to have as my wife cursed me and called me coward. In my grief, I couldn’t bear to hear her words of hatred. She to lost her life that dreadful night.
Soon thereafter my father’s servants came across the bodies, and I was forced to flee the place I had called home. I barely made it out of my father’s manor, and without the aid of Teacher, I doubt that I would have left the city alive. Teacher appeared out of nowhere as I was fleeing my father’s servants. He grabbed my hand, and led me down the back alleys of the city, dodging my father’s servants, and delaying them with caltrops and smoke tricks when they got to close for comfort.
When we had thrown off my father’s servants, Teacher, cloaked in black, straw hat coving his features, asked me if I was a servant.
With my hair, snow white as it is, the answer was obvious. “No,” I said, “Not anymore.
Teacher raised his head, so that I could see his eyes past his cloak and hat. His eyes gazed at me coldly, as if looking into my very soul. His expression, as little of it as I could see, seemed to ask why?
I diverted my gaze, and told him that I’d slain my father and brother. I told him that I was a kinslayer, not worthy even of a noble death.
He told me that I might yet have a purpose, and took me out of the city. He told me that he would teach me of a path that was not bound by the rules that the self-proclaimed servants put forth. He also told me that if I learned this path, I would forever by the enemy of the servants.
Eager to defy fate, I told him that I would learn this path.
The first thing Teacher taught me was how to forget the path I had walked before. He taught me the art of making my thoughts nothing, and through this first training, I erased the center of my being. Destroyed the foundation lain down by my father to make way for the foundation Teacher would lay. After that, Teacher taught me the values of the way of shadow. Honor, in the form my father valued, was worthless in the shadows. Where my father taught me to be true in word, Teacher taught me to be true in heart. Where father taught me to honor loyalties as dictated by others, Teacher taught me to honor loyalties as dictated by myself. How pure and simple the way of shadow seemed in those first weeks of my instruction.
After Teacher had imparted his philosophy, he began to train me in the crafts of the shadow. He taught me how to grind and boil certain roots, berries, and fungi to produce deadly poisons, and he ground my field sword down to make me a blade more suitable to the world of shadows. In the following days, when he taught me to use it properly, I marveled at how fast and free that new blade was compared to the heavy field sword my father had given me.
After I became proficient in the use of my shadow sword, which I named Little Steel, Teacher began to instruct me in the finer arts of the shadow world. These lessons were the harshest. The arts of stealth, and the craft of deception are, perhaps, the hardest for a former servant, such as myself, to learn. When I asked Teacher why these things were necessary, or even desired, when he preached to me about truth and loyalty, Teacher responded by saying that stealth and guile would free me from relying on others. He told me that the only way to be free was to conceal myself, whether physically or mentally, from others. I think that this is when I started to hate the path of shadow. I hated it even more when Teacher showed me how a creature of shadow put rice on the table.
The last thing Teacher taught me, before he vanished from my life, was how to kill. He showed me how to correctly apply poisons to daggers and needles, and where the vital points on the human body were. He taught me that the shadow sword was not always the best weapon, and how to judge when to use different arms. I think he realized how I was beginning to hate this new world, and how I longed for the simpler ways of my childhood, as I still do. The last time I saw him, he told me that I had learned all he could teach, and that the rest I would have to learn on my own. He asked me to live in shadows, at peace with myself. Than he left, vanished through some trick I had yet to learn.
At first, I tried to return to the way of the servant. I traveled to distant realms, where I wouldn’t be haunted by my reputation as a kinslayer. At every stop, my would-be-master beamed at my snow-white hair, than scowled at my blade. At every stop, I was watched, and more than once, my would-be-master tried to have me killed. Eventually, I stopped approaching these men openly as a would-be-servant, and started approaching them in the shadows, as an assassin, willing to kill for money. None of my employers tried to have me killed. A servant with a short blade is a potential spy. An assassin with a short blade is a professional who knows his work.
In time, I began to learn the vanishing trick my master pulled on me, and the scope of my assignments changed to include counter-assassination. The subterfuge of my initial job now expanded drastically to deal with the subterfuge of the other assassins I sought to thwart. How wearisome my job seemed. How I longed to give it up. It was around this time that I heard rumors of a foreign land, where this tedious necessity of killing for money didn’t exist. The land I heard of was a place where anyone could walk in the sunlight, not just the servants and their peasant dogs. What drew me most of all though, was the fact that no one in this foreign land would know of my past. This was a land where I could start my life anew.